


For I Have Sinned

by miss_begonia



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d thought of how Jared looked at girls he wanted to fuck, the way he’d unconsciously lift a hand to his lips, biting his thumb as he watched them walk away.</p><p>He’d thought of Jared’s hands wrapped around a coffee cup, dwarfing it in his grip, making it look small and insignificant.</p><p>He’d thought of Jared’s grip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For I Have Sinned

~*~

 _For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power and of love and of a sound mind._  
(2 Timothy 1:7)

 _And you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free._  
(John 8:32)

~*~

Jensen remembers the first time he heard those words.

They’d been eating Sunday dinner – plates overflowing with honey ham and greens and mashed potatoes and fresh-baked rolls. The whole family had been settled around his parents’ long wooden dinner table – Grandma and Dad at the head and foot, respectively, with Mom, Josh, Mackenzie and Jensen situated along the sides. It’d been a good day, a good sermon; they’d dug in with hungry smiles, talking and laughing with each other, enjoying themselves.

It’d been summer, late afternoon, sun still beaming bright through the windows, slanting across the white linen tablecloth and glinting off the good silver serving dishes. Jensen had been sweating in his dark blue church suit, studiously ignoring the silly monkey faces Josh had been making across the table, trying to crack him up. Mackenzie had been fidgeting in her pale pink satin dress, picking at her potatoes – seven years old and already on a diet. His mom had placed one hand over her daughter’s, stilling her movement with a tight nod and a firm grip, never pausing in her animated conversation with his grandmother.

 _You should have seen this fish, Josh_ , his father had said. _Big as a house, I swear._

 _How big was it?_ Josh had tossed back, sixteen and smart-ass, going through a phase.

Alan Ackles had raised his hands and spread them at least three feet apart, measuring air. _This big, son. Hand to God._

 _Hand to God._

Jensen knows he remembers this now because it had bothered him even then. What did it mean? That a person could reach out and touch Him, feel His holy presence and be comforted? Reassured? Was that what it meant to say _hand to God?_ Was it just another way to say _I swear_? Or a divine way to be certain? To know?

Even then at thirteen years old, wide-eyed and wondrous, Jensen had been confused. Skeptical. God had always seemed so distant and far away. Abstract. The kind of friend who says he’s always home, but never seems to answer the door when people in need come to call.

The next time Jensen remembers hearing that phrase was only a few months back – at a late-night poker party at Tom Welling’s house in Vancouver. They’d been sitting around Tom’s obscenely large fireplace – Tom, Mike, Jared and Jensen, the Fearsome Foursome – tossing back good Canadian beer and lamenting the lack of appropriate precipitation.

 _Fucking cold as shit, and still no snow_ , Tom had remarked. _What’s the point of that?_

 _You want it to snow so we can shoot out in that mess?_ Mike had asked, flicking a card over to his co-star. Mike was always the dealer. _Personally I’d rather be cold and not wet, thank you._

 _Pussy,_ Jared had snickered.

 _Bite me, Padalecki_ , Mike had said, voice holding no heat. _Wax on, wax off, pretty boy?_

 _I thought we issued a statute of limitations on wax jokes,_ Jared had grumbled.

 _Well, you know what I say about promises,_ Mike’d said, tossing him a filthy grin. _They’re only as good as the word of the man that gives ‘em._

He’d reached down and groped himself through his jeans. _Hand to God._

They’d all laughed – a little drunk, a lot tired – giddy and excited to have enough time off to sit around and be useless and act like boys. Jensen had laughed, too – he was long past the point of being offended by such gestures or sentiments. Ten years in Hollywood had, if nothing else, helped him develop a keen appreciation for the gratuitous and gross.

But when he’d stumbled into his apartment early the next morning and collapsed on the sofa, prepared to pass out, he’d found that he couldn’t sleep. The phrase had kept running through his head, a broken record:

 _Hand to God hand to God hand to God._

He’d wondered. Wondered why fifteen years later he still didn’t have an answer.

~*~

The first time Jensen had met Jared, Jensen had been sleep-deprived and jet-lagged – a premonition, perhaps, of the months to come. He’d staggered into the studio twenty minutes before the audition, hoping he’d have the presence of mind to actually remember what part he was trying out for.

Jensen had been wearing his lucky black button-down shirt, clean blue jeans and his old boots; he’d felt proud he’d managed to dress himself at all, let alone almost color-coordinate. He’d hoped the WB production team would appreciate the effort.

When Jared had walked in – ten minutes late, easy-as-you-please – Jensen did a double-take. Jared was wearing a magenta shirt with giant white flowers smeared across it, some hideous Hawaiian concoction that looked like it had been fished out of a bin from one of LA’s less fashionable second-hand stores. His jeans were worn nearly through at the knees and ripped ragged at the ends; they rode so low on his hips that Jensen could see a scrap of Jared’s belly when he stretched his arms over his head.

 _Oh, Lord_ , Jensen had thought. _What am I in for now?_

But Jared had been completely professional and prepared. He hadn’t stuttered as they read through the script aloud, and Jensen could already see glimmers of how Jared might play the role of Sam Winchester – the brave but naïve, dedicated but reluctant younger brother.

He’d even begun to feel more comfortable playing Dean, stepping smoothly into the shoes of a guy who cared so much for his brother that he’d give up everything for him. Looking at Jared, so fresh and vibrant and full of energy, it hadn’t been difficult for Jensen to imagine feeling that way about someone – so devoted he’d put faith in what they had as a family even when he couldn’t believe in anything else.

The network execs had apparently seen something in Jared, too – or, really, in the two of them together.

 _Chemistry,_ Eric had remarked. _That’s what you two have._

He’d rubbed his hands together and grinned.

 _I love it. I love it._

After the audition, Jared had approached Jensen, holding out one huge, long-fingered hand for him to shake.

 _Thanks, man. This was great. You were great._

Jensen’s gotten used to praise, even flattery, but Jared’s compliment – mild as it was – had made his cheeks burn.

 _Th-thanks. I hope this all works out,_ Jensen had said, tripping over the words in his flustered confusion.

Jared had let go of his hand, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder, a small smile pushing up the corners of his mouth.

 _Me too, Jensen. Me too._

Jensen had spent half an hour afterwards huddled in the bathroom, one hand pressed flat against the tile wall, his other hand fluttering along his sweaty forehead. He’d kept his head bowed and his body still, trying to steady his ragged breathing.

~*~

Jared doesn’t mean to do it, Jensen knows.

Jared doesn’t even know he is doing it. He can’t help it. It’s who he is – a big, nutty puppy with a twist of wicked in him – nectar-sweet with a drop of naughty lurking under his candied shell.

For example: when things get boring on set, they play pranks on each other. Turns out that despite his apparently harmless exterior, Jared’s a dangerous man when it comes to all things sneaky and devious.

One day Jensen had showed up late on set – twenty minutes, traffic had been a bitch – but it’d been just enough time for Jared to lay out a full array of women’s cosmetics in front of Jensen’s mirror in the make-up trailer. Everything had been there, from an eyelash curler to blush and concealer, silver eyeliner and blue, sparkly eyeshadow – even a few things Jensen wasn’t sure he could identify.

There had even been a copy of _Seventeen_ placed conspicuously on the chair, open to a section on reviving 80s fashion and make-up. Jensen had tilted his head to one side and noticed a sticky note pasted onto the corner of one glossy page.

It read: _Think you could work the Cyndi Lauper look, darling? Are these your true colors? Dare to dream, Jenny._

Jensen had been caught somewhere between feigning offense and cracking up, but when Jared had finally showed his face, he’d observed Jensen’s flushed features and tweaked his nose.

 _Pretty as a picture, you are,_ Jared had said. _Hey, Shannon, can’t you see it? Jensen running around in a wedding dress, singing, ‘touched for the very first time…’_

Shannon hadn’t even tried to muffle her giggles; she’d laughed until tears streamed down her face, ignoring Jensen’s ferocious glare.

 _You done?_ Jensen had asked Jared, pursing his lips.

 _Not even, baby_ , Jared had murmured, lifting an eyebrow. _Not even._

Jensen had pretended to shake it off, but Jared had apologized later anyway, nudging Jensen with one huge shoulder and saying, _You know I didn’t mean…_

 _It’s all right, Jared,_ Jensen had muttered. _But you better watch your back._

Jared had tossed him an impish grin.

But later that afternoon, on a break, Jensen had slouched over to his trailer to try to take a short nap and found himself lying on the narrow, uncomfortable bed, hands laced together across his stomach, staring sleeplessly at the ceiling.

He hadn’t been planning his revenge or trying to imagine how he could out-do Jared’s bizarre brilliance.

No, his thoughts had meandered in a different direction entirely.

He’d thought of the glint in Jared’s eyes when he’d raked them up and down Jensen’s body, assessing and cataloguing, joking but – not, somehow.

He’d thought of how Jared looked at girls he wanted to fuck, the way he’d unconsciously lift a hand to his lips, biting his thumb as he watched them walk away.

He’d thought of Jared’s hands wrapped around a coffee cup, dwarfing it in his grip, making it look small and insignificant.

He’d thought of Jared’s grip.

He’d felt heat pool in his groin, dick hardening against denim. He’d slid his hand down instinctively to cup himself through his jeans, but the second his fingers had fluttered across his zipper he’d snapped his hand back as if he’d been burned.

 _No. No, I don’t do that,_ Jensen had thought. _Never._

He’d squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will his arousal away. He’d bitten his lip until it bled, hoping the pain would distract his body from other sensual preoccupations, thought about idioms and Nancy Reagan and roadkill.

 _Please, God,_ Jensen had prayed. _I need you now._

~*~

Jared’s a good guy. He’s goofy and hilarious and kind and smart and easy-going, a good friend. They hang out and act like they’re twelve and tease each other and roughhouse, and laugh until tears course down Jared’s cheeks and Jensen has to take deep, cleansing breaths just to keep from asphyxiating.

Jared’s his comrade-in-arms, his _brother_ , and when he’s around Jensen can…forget. Forget how empty his apartment in L.A. feels when he flies back on weekends, forget how long it’s been since a woman’s touch felt like a benediction, forget how bitter hard liquor tastes when he’s got no one to share it with, forget how cold the bottle feels when pressed between shaking hands.

He can forget what it’s like to be without Jared. To be alone.

The days pass and they become more comfortable with each other, but eventually, things start to get…complicated. By the time they start filming season two, it feels like a few aspects of their relationship have gotten harder.

Jared’s abs. Jared’s triceps. Jensen’s dick.

He starts having dreams. Dreams of Jared’s long, thin fingers and parts of Jensen he wouldn’t dare mention in polite conversation. Dreams of heat and wetness and tight, slippery muscle. And lips. Lips, everywhere. Lips and tongue in places they should not go. Lips and tongues in places Jensen didn’t think they _could_ go.

Jensen wakes up shaking with his palm pressed flat against his cock. He can feel it throbbing even through layers of fabric, can taste the blood trickling from his lip, split from biting and worrying it between his teeth. He moves only slightly, shifts to alleviate a cramp in his leg and comes all over his silk boxers with a strangled groan, eyes squeezed shut, the other hand twisting and fisting his sheets.

He spends the rest of the night clenching and unclenching his hands, feeling the cotton sheet bunch under his palms, staring at the ceiling and thinking about God – as if the more he meditates on the divine, the less he’ll feel damned.

It doesn’t work.

In the days that follow, he begins to notice things about Jared, things he never noticed before – the way his upper lip curves when he’s concentrating; the way his eyes glitter with flecks of gold; the easy spread of his legs as he sprawls out in his trailer, limbs everywhere; the shadows forming under his eyes and stubble beginning to dot his cheek; the way he almost starts to purr when he’s sleepy, his voice slurred and gentle as he leans against Jensen’s shoulder, nearly nodding off as they struggle to make it through one last take at the end of another sixteen-hour day.

Jensen doesn’t always agree with his father, but there had been comfort in his unwavering advice. There had been a time when he’d been able to defer to his father’s judgment on almost every occasion – whenever he’d been of a divided mind about something.

But there’s nothing – nothing, nothing – in Alan Ackles’ handy-dandy instructional handbook on life to help Jensen figure out Jared Tristan Padalecki.

If all this is a test, then Jared is Jensen’s final exam.

More and more often Jensen catches himself staring at Jared, eyes tracing the tight curves of his biceps and the strong lines of his neck and shoulders, trying to decipher the pattern tattooed in freckles across his sun-tanned arms.

If Jared is Jensen’s test, he’s pretty sure he’s already failing.

~*~

Jensen never meant for Jared to notice the marks, but he discovers them – as he does most everything about Jensen – by accident, after copious amounts of drinking.

It’s always a guaranteed recipe for disaster – Jello shooters, Mike Rosenbaum and a drinking game involving _Kentucky Fried Movie_ – but that doesn’t stop Jensen from indulging. It’s been a bitch of a week, and last night he’d gotten his monthly phone call from his folks – reason enough to break out the bottle.

Jared closes one large hand around Jensen’s wrist and turns it over to reveal the faint discolorations around the ridges of bone. He arches an eyebrow and gives Jensen his best drunken, earnest expression.

Jensen – a sucker for the Padalecki puppy-dog eyes – does something completely ill-advised and stupid.

He tells him the truth.

Well. Maybe not the whole truth. A version of it. A version that doesn’t include the part about how his father once had overhead him call out an unquestionably masculine name while he’d been engaging in some heavy-duty personal time and had kicked in his bedroom door, spewing biblical passages left and right and ranting about “self-abuse.”

Jensen had been all of sixteen at the time and basically a walking hard-on. He got hot and bothered thinking about the score of the latest Cowboys game, or the board game Monopoly, or celery. He’d thought he’d imagined the thump of his father’s boot against hard wood, but then his father’s face had appeared, stony cold and furious, and his blood had run cold. Jensen had cringed, cowering against his blue cotton sheets, and prayed for salvation – or, at the very least, temporary loss of hearing and/or sight.

That day’s spank session had started out the same way it always did back then – with fantasies of Lydia Talbot, her white frilly church dress rucked up around her middle, puffy sleeves pushed off her shoulders, strappy Mary Janes kicked across the room. She was wrapped all around Jensen, pressing against him, kissing and licking his neck, tiny hand fondling him through his dress pants, rubbing and stroking, then slipping inside, her fingernail catching a little – _there, fuck, yes_ – as she thumbed over the head…

But when Lydia pulled back it wasn’t Lydia at all, it was Ryan, Ryan grinning that dirty smile and whispering low, _C’mon, Jen, it’s good like this, innit? So good like this…_

Jensen never decided if it was his best friend’s evil smirk or his sinful words that had pushed him over the edge, or if it had just been a case of inconvenient timing; either way, he’d been too far gone to yank himself back before he fell.

It didn’t matter. He’d spurted into the tissues in his hand with Ryan’s name on his lips, and that was what his father had overheard.

Jensen has since blocked out much of that humiliating confrontation, but he remembers the sentiments, so plainly articulated in his father’s brittle, angry drawl:

 _Doing that to yourself is like purchasing a one-way ticket to ride shotgun with Satan, son. You keep your hands off your private parts until you’re old enough to have a woman bless you with her touch._

 _Riding shotgun with Satan._ Jensen had known a lot about Satan from years of sermons and Sunday school – knew about his fiery wrath, his torturing ways, his ability to hurt and heat and harm.

Jensen didn’t even tan right, for god’s sake. The last thing he wanted was to spend the afterlife blistering and boiling. He’d never be able to handle eternal damnation.

 _Were you thinking about your friend, Jen? I heard…_

Jensen’s whole body had stiffened as if anticipating a blow.

But when the blow came, it wasn’t physical at all.

 _It’s wrong. Wrong for you to want that, boy._

His father had stared at Jensen with dark, unmoving eyes, heavy eyebrows knitted in concentration and focus.

 _Or do you not know that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God?_ his father had quoted. _Do not be deceived; neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor homosexuals..._

It had been chilly in that room, despite the heavy, warm air ghosting through his open window. The tissue had been sticky and filthy in his hands.

Jensen had averted his eyes, flushing.

 _I think it’s good we had this little talk,_ his father had said, turning back towards the door.

As he’d pushed open the door to leave, he’d tossed over his shoulder:

 _You don’t forget what I said, son._

Jensen’s father didn’t need to worry about that.

Jensen had always been an attractive kid – too attractive, even – model-pretty, beautiful enough to make his mom want to dress him up in clothes he hated and let strange, sleazy older men take pictures of him.

As far back as he can remember, Jensen’s otherworldly good looks had upset his father.

Alan Ackles had observed the way girls and guys alike cast smoldering eyes in his son’s direction during church, at backyard barbeques, at baseball games, even at football games after Jensen joined Bell Guard. His face had darkened, tightening and hardening as he’d observed giggling girls whispering behind cupped hands in parking lots, stealing covert looks in Jensen’s direction.

He’d never liked Jensen’s theatrical ambitions, either, thought they put him on display, “like a museum exhibit,” but he couldn’t register a real objection – he was an actor himself, after all. Instead he chose to regard his son’s acting aspirations as merely a misguided and highly temporary phase that would eventually lead him down the path to his god-given destiny, perhaps as a member of the clergy.

His father had believed in letting his children make their own choices, though he’d never hesitated in providing his special brand of helpful, pointed advice.

The guidance Jensen’s father had given him that day had seared into him like a brand, tattooing him as deeply as if he’d used needle and ink.

But his marks could not be seen on Jensen’s skin.

After that conversation, Jensen had vowed never to touch himself again in that way; never to spill his seed without a higher purpose; never to fantasize about unholy acts he’d later be ashamed of. But he hadn’t been able to control where his frustrated hands had strayed during sleep; hadn’t been able to censor his unconscious, so he had taken to tying his wrists together above his head with rope, securing them against the headboard – not tied ridiculously tight but tight enough that he woke up if he tried to break the binds.

It had worked surprisingly well. Of course Jensen had still been tempted –  
sometimes he awoke so hard that it hurt, his body burning as blood swelled the insatiable organ.

But it was all part of God’s plan, a test – one he was determined to pass.

Even when he was no longer living under his father’s roof, even after he’d moved to Los Angeles (the veritable HQ of Sodom and Gomorrah) and discovered just how amazing it was to have a woman “bless [him] with her touch,” he’d still managed to avoid touching himself in that way, denying himself relief.

Thirteen years have passed, and Jensen no longer has to bind his hands – he sleeps like the dead, passing out from exhaustion the second his head hits the pillow – but the marks remain. Remnants of bruises, ticklings of rope burn, a smattering of thin, white lines scratched and rubbed into the tender skin of his wrists, memories of the way he’d stretched and strained, reaching for what he could only do in his dreams.

Jensen’s known Jared for six months and two weeks when he finds himself explaining the scars in a burst of blurry, intoxicated ramblings – how he doesn’t do that, doesn’t _jack off_ or _wack off_ or _prime the pump_ or _shake hands with Mr. Happy._

Jared lets him ramble on until he says his piece, and then he just stares at him, wide-eyed, mouth half-open. He licks his lips, starts to say something, stops, then tries again.

“Wow,” Jared says, finally. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

His voice cracks.

“Jen?”

Jensen feels his heart pinch in his chest. He moves his hand, wrist slipping free of Jared’s fingers.

“Yeah. Yeah, totally kidding, man,” he murmurs.

~*~

 _Similar backgrounds, both from Texas_. That’s the line they always feed the press, what they tell people so they won’t think _that_ –rumors voiced in low, conspiratory whispers, the kind of talk Jensen used to inspire in high school when he’d hang out with his best friend Ryan.

Ryan had floppy dark hair, with brown eyes and crooked teeth and a wicked smile; he was another theater kid and on the baseball team too. They’d go see Bruce Lee movies on Saturday nights; pass each other notes during Sunday school with drawings of their teacher decked out in fishnets, a halter top and hooker boots; stay up late on hot summer nights stretched out on Ryan’s front porch looking for stars, talking about nothing, making up stories about their future.

 _I’m gonna be a physical therapist,_ Jensen would say. _Fix people that’re broken._

 _You pervert,_ Ryan had tossed back. _You just want to feel on people all day._

Friends, that’s all they ever were, but there was still talk. Still looks.

 _Wow, y’all boys are close, aren’t you?_

Close, like it was some kind of curse word, like it was dirty. Like it was wrong for boys to share anything more than allegiance to the same sports teams.

Jensen knows what he and Jared have isn’t casual – the kind of friendship that comes out of spending a lot of time together or sharing interests or even a “background.”

Sure, they’re from the same state, but they grew up hundreds of miles apart. By the time Jensen was cast on _Days_ , Jared was just starting high school. Jensen did crappy TV, crappier movies, took nearly naughty pictures; Jared won a contest, got a part and played it well, grew up in front of the camera. Jared’s loud and friendly and all long, loose limbs; Jensen’s quiet and focused and careful where he steps.

People are always talking about how they’re similar. What really matters is how different they are.

 _Damn, Jensen, you are one strange man, aren’t you?_ Jared had asked him one day early on in shooting after startling him yet again and making him jump. Jensen had a tendency to live in his own head, slipping into reveries during their down time.

 _You know, my momma used to tell me if I thought too hard I might hurt somethin’,_ Jared had drawled. He’d formed his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed at Jensen’s face, _pow-pow._

 _Consider that, Ackles. You’ll break something you keep that up._

Jensen hadn’t known how to tell him that in all the ways that mattered he was already broken. That he’d been picking up the pieces for years and pasting them back together into a distorted, freakish mosaic that lurked just under his lightly freckled skin. Should anyone take the time to flake off the layers, they might be unpleasantly surprised by what lay inside.

But no one took the time, and that was okay. Jensen liked it better that way, in fact. He liked his psychic armor; didn’t feel like stripping down and letting himself be naked and exposed for just anyone.

He hadn’t think Jared would understand because Jared was so clearly whole – not a collage or montage or pastiche but just _complete_ – no seams visible.

Jared hadn’t yet been broken or fractured, and it made him beautiful.

~*~

For the spring hiatus Jensen flies back to L.A. He could have gone home to Dallas, but doesn’t. He misses Josh and Kenzie but figures there’s always next Thanksgiving or Christmas. He calls instead, talks to them for hours, running up his phone bill, laughing and joking, easy. It’s nice. Feels good, real, like his scuffed up old boots and the ratty jeans he doesn’t wear out in public.

He hangs out with Chris and Steve and Dave; messes around with his guitar; hooks up with a random chick at a Kane concert and feels dirty afterwards. He comes home in the wee hours of the morning and spends hours in the tub, letting the warm water slip-slide over his skin, washing away tension and the musky smell of her. His fingers and toes prune and the water turns lukewarm but he stays put, tilts his head back and breathes in the leftover mist of steam and thinks.

Thinks about prayer, and divine intervention, and sin. Wonders what kind of God would punish His people for wanting a kind of pleasure that hurts no one. That does no harm.

He thinks about everything and shivers.

The phone rings and he grapples for it – he’d brought it into the bathroom so he wouldn’t have to get out of the bath to pick it up if it rang and didn’t plan on answering it, really, but he has this feeling, and…

It’s Jared.

Jared’s in San Antonio, spending three weeks with his family. He sounds happy, relaxed – like he’s smiling. As Jensen listens he feels his own lips curve up at the edges, exercising rarely-used facial muscles.

“How is everything, man? It’s like…I don’t know what to do with myself, not having to get up at the butt crack of dawn to go shoot some exterior scene covered in caked on blood and dirt. You know?”

Jensen grins.

“Mmm. Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean.”

“But damn, it’s nice to be home. Weird, too. I keep going places and remembering shit, like, from high school. Last night I went back to the football field with a bunch of my old friends and all I could think of is how I lost my virginity there, when I was seventeen, middle of the night, nobody around – how cliché is that?”

Jensen’s stomach clenches. He pictures Jared splayed out across dew-tipped grass, faceless girl straddling him, her hands pushed up under his t-shirt, her tongue tracing wet circles over his nipples as he arches into her, thrusts and moans and gasps.

“I…uh,” Jensen manages.

“It was the strangest thing, remembering that, just how…intense everything felt. Like I could remember the way she smelled, a little sour from the beer, mixed with this flowery perfume.”

Jared inhales, like he can still smell it now.

“She had this scar on her hip – she fell playing softball or something –  
just a tiny strip of pink skin but it was so fucking sexy, Jen, Jesus. I’d lick it and she’d make this sound like…like…”

Jensen hums, closing his mouth against the moan threatening to escape.

“I don’t know, it just messed me up a little, remembering that. How…real it was, or something.”

Jared laughs, a nervous bark.

“I’m sorry, Jen. I don’t mean to get all sentimental on you. I want to know—”

There’s a clattering on the other end, then Jared’s voice fades out for a moment, like he’s muffling the receiver with his hand. When he comes back on a second later he sounds breathless, rushed.

“I gotta go, man. Momma’s telling me she’s got breakfast ready and she gets straight up scary if I’m not there twelve seconds after she hollers. You take care, all right? I’ll talk to you later.”

Jensen mumbles his good-bye, then places the phone on the closed toilet seat, careful not to drop it into the tub and electrocute himself.

Every part of Jensen’s body feels like it’s been ignited, twitching and taut with tension, and God, hot, so hot. He’s feverish, sweaty and dizzy, and he can’t breathe.

But the water hasn’t been hot for half an hour.

This heat – whatever it is – seems to be burning him up from the inside.

God help him, it doesn’t get more biblical than that.

~*~

There was one time on set when Jared couldn’t get his shit together, just kept fucking up his lines until even Kim lost it, Kim of the eternally clear head and the everlasting patience. He had sighed and shouted _Cut!_ and told Jared to go somewhere and work it out, get himself in whatever zone he needed to be in to _do his fucking job_.

It doesn’t get like that often on set – it’s usually a friendly place, sloppy yet still focused. But sometimes they’re all just tired and pissed off and nothing can change that – not Jared’s bellow of a laugh or Jensen’s best smile or all the gummi worms in the world.

Jared had been so devastated he’d locked himself in his trailer for a good fifteen minutes and wouldn’t let anyone in, not even Jensen. So Jensen had sat outside his door even though it was minus five million degrees and waited. Waited because he couldn’t forget that kicked-puppy look Jared had given him, couldn’t stop aching because Jared was breaking inside. He’d wanted to help, and if he couldn’t do that he’d wanted to be here, be available on the off chance that Jared might actually need him for once.

After Jensen spent twenty minutes shivering the door had banged open, Jared looming huge and fierce over him, eyes a cool, flickering hazel. He’d finally been ready, Jensen could tell. Jared had put on his _get-down-to-business-and-make-this-fucking-work_ face.

Then he’d looked down.

 _Shit, Jensen,_ he’d said. _What the hell are you doing?_

 _I…I was waiting to see if…_

Jared had reached down, hand grasping Jensen’s arm, tugging him up. When they were both standing Jared had wrapped one arm around Jensen’s waist in a messy half-hug.

 _You didn’t need to do that,_ Jared had mumbled. Wait around for me. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know. Shoulda let you in.

Jensen might’ve imagined it, but Jared’s eyes had seemed warmer after that, glowing golden-grey-blue. And every time Jared had looked at him full-on—  
no wavering or accidental flick of the eyes—Jensen’s heart had done a tiny flip.

He knew Jared didn’t get it, but it didn’t matter. Didn’t matter if Jared knew it was about need for Jensen now, wasn’t about want or wish or _wouldn’t-it-be-nice._

Jared didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to know if he was going to look at Jensen like that – melt him down, then build him up all over again, shard by shard.

~*~

The second phone call of the hiatus comes late at night, waking Jensen from a deep, hazy sleep. He’d passed out on his couch in front of the TV, soothed into slumber by the murmurings of the 700 Club turned down low.

His eyelids feel grainy and stiff, mouth filled with a stale, bitter taste. He clutches the phone with clumsy fingers.

“’Lo?”

“I’m so sorry, Jen,” Jared says, voice pitched deep and soft.

 _Cigarettes and sugar_ , Jensen thinks. He’s the smoker. Jared’s the sweet tooth.

“I had to wait ‘til late to call – my family, dude – I love them but they cling like fucking Saran wrap.” He sighs. “Shit.”

“It’s okay,” Jensen mumbles, because it is. It always is, with Jared. Like this.

“Thought of you today, man. My friends Jason and Matt came over, right, and they brought over this...”

He trails off, a low laugh floating over the line.

“This video – a porno, Jensen. And you know how we were talking that one time about how if you watch porn totally sober it’s kind of hilarious, just…the way the girls look and what they say, the boobs that ate Manhattan, all that shit?”

Jensen remembers. That was a good night: Jared was all sweaty and laughing, lurching around a pool hall that only served cheap bear and had an old-fashioned cigarette vending machine.

 _Can’t find those anywhere anymore,_ Jensen had remarked in awe, and Jared had teased him for being old.

 _You remember when they used to ride ‘round in horse and buggies too, pops?_

Jensen had just rolled his eyes and bought a pack of Marlboros and smoked one outside while Jared had chatted up the bartender. She was a tall redhead wearing a Lakers t-shirt and jeans so tight you could see the outline of tiny, bikini-cut panties. Jensen had thought he was near getting ditched time, but when he came back inside Jared had picked out a table, racked the balls and was chalking cue sticks.

 _It’s an art, not a science, Jen,_ he’d told him, pointing one long, admonishing finger. _Don’t ever let nobody tell you different._

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “I remember.”

He wants to keep Jared talking forever, voice so quiet and intimate over the phone it’s like he’s leaning against his shoulder, breathing in Jensen’s ear, telling him secrets.

“This was fucking horrible, man. Like – these girls, they weren’t even pretty, just slutty, would take it any which way and the guys…” Jared snorts. “The guys were ugly and one was kind of fat and had this mustache that was trying to eat his face, I swear to God.”

Jensen smiles. He wishes – for a second – that Jared could see him. But then he looks down at his worn, striped, drawstring pajama pants and faded Zeppelin t-shirt and thinks: _Hmm. Maybe not._

“I don’t get what’s so sexy about tits like that. I mean, I get what’s sexy about tits, y’know, licking ‘em, sucking ‘em—”

Jensen’s breath catches. His hand, resting innocently on his stomach, feels suddenly hot through the threadbare cotton of his t-shirt. He squirms, shirt riding up, and his hand finds warm, bare skin of its own volition.

“—but those huge tits, the really round fake ones? You think they must feel like rubber or some shit. I would be scared to touch tits like that. I might bounce off. I don’t want to fuck a trampoline, know what I mean?”

Jensen’s not even registering Jared’s words at this point, just the purring timbre of his voice, scratchy-rough and joking. Happy.

His hand slides down past his belly button, resting at his waistband, fingers grazing over the hollow of his hip.

 _God. Please, God, make me stop._

“I love women, I love their bodies, I love seeing ‘em naked, but porn is just ridiculous. I wouldn’t even want to be in porn, man. It’d feel so wrong, screwing a girl like that, not a real thing about her. So perfect there’s not a mark on her.”

Jensen knows that Jared’s probably thinking about licking scars and discovering sexy on a football field when he was seventeen, but maybe, just maybe, he’s also remembering Jensen’s marks from many months ago.

If he’s thinking about what he’s saying at all.

It sends current through him anyway, a brutal, searing jolt.

He can feel every one of his fingertips pressing through the pilled fabric of his pants.

“You there, Jensen?”

Jared’s nervous now, afraid maybe that Jensen’s hung up, that he’s talking to air.

“I’m here,” Jensen mumbles.

He brings his hand up to press against his cheek. He feels the sandpaper scratch of stubble, the rigid bones in his jaw.

 _I’m here. I’m **here**._

~*~

It had been a couple months back – a lazy Friday night in Vancouver – and late, late enough to be considered early. Jensen had been sprawled across Jared’s couch, legs spread-eagled, head pillowed on his own arms. They had been watching a movie, but both of them had lost the narrative thread some time before; now they had deteriorated to the point of being punch-drunk and silly, laughing at things that weren’t funny. Jared was thumbing through a _Would You Rather…_ book, bombarding Jensen with ridiculous questions.

 _Would you rather make the sound of a bowling strike every time you sneeze, or every time you burp make the sound of a gong? Fight to the death The Rock or fifteen clones of Barbara Bush? Have sex with a monkey or an elephant? Hit every red light for the rest of your life, or always be wrong?_

Jensen hadn’t been able to stop laughing long enough to answer any of the damn questions, but Jared had kept reeling ‘em off anyway, queries getting softer and rougher as he had run down his battery, exhaustion elbowing its way into his aura.

When Jared’s voice had finally cracked he’d thrown the book across the room with a dramatic flourish, cheering as it hit the rim of the squat, straw garbage can and fell in.

 _Three points, bitch,_ he’d crowed.

 _Who you calling a bitch?_ Jensen had murmured, eyelids drooping, sleep so tempting, so close. In a few hours they’d be flying back to L.A. for the weekend – only a short plane ride between Vancouver and warm, eternal sunshine, how amazing was that? – but at the time it’d been cold. Jensen had pulled a blanket tight round his shoulders, shivering.

 _You cold? I’ll turn up the heat._

Jared had stood with difficulty, woozy on his feet.

 _I think I might be coming down with something. Fucking weather._

 _Fucking **life,**_ Jensen had sighed.

 _Fucking life is right,_ Jared had muttered, frowning at the thermostat. _I vote for more fucking in this life, personally._

Jensen’s stomach had flipped; he’d clutched the blanket between his fingers, scratchy wool abrasive against his palm.

 _So what was your plan, anyway?_ Jared had asked, as if it was obvious, as if there was context. _Your life plan? What did you want to be when you grew up?_

Jensen’s throat had gone dry. They’d been drinking hot chocolate but had finished hours ago, and both of them had been too tired to go make more. He’d wished the kitchen hadn’t felt so far away. That Jared hadn’t felt so close.

 _I don’t know. My dad used to…he used to say he thought I should be a minister. ‘Cause I was so quiet and never acted out._

Jensen had scratched at his neck, suddenly itchy.

 _Josh was too smart for it, and Kenzie was too young to know one way or the other. But me, I was…he thought I was right for it._

Jared had tilted his head to one side. _Seriously?_

Jensen had nodded. _I guess maybe I should be flattered. There’s nothing more important to my dad than the church. I would’ve been making his dreams come true._

There had been a moment of silence just long enough to make Jensen feel nervous. But then Jared had fixed his deep green-grey eyes on Jensen, gaze steady and unblinking and a little bit sad.

 _But what did you want, Jensen? I’m asking you what you wanted._

Jensen had felt suddenly split open, spread out, raw. He’d curled his hand around the armrest of the couch, then flexed his fingers.

 _Can’t see you as a preacher myself,_ Jared had mused, when Jensen had remained silent.

He’d never explained why.  


~*~

The third time Jared calls, just a few days before their hiatus is over, Jensen’s making dinner – frying onions and garlic in olive oil, attempting the beginnings of his mom’s homemade tomato sauce. It smells good, basic but spicy-sweet. Jensen’s humming along to Steve Earle, thinking about baseball games and the scent of fresh-cut grass, popcorn and hot dogs wafting away on the breeze.

When he picks up the phone he knows something’s up: Jared doesn’t sound right. Words too slow. Drunk.

“I was thinking…we need to get another one of them books,” Jared says, with no preamble. “The ones with the questions? ‘Cause it gets awful boring sometimes waiting around on set, and we’ve already gone through the others, right?”

Jensen makes an affirmative sound. He’s feeling disoriented, like he’s been dropped in the middle of a scene and doesn’t know his lines.

He doesn’t mention the fact that they’ve gone through the questions, posed them and left them out there in empty air, but haven’t answered them all. Jared’s usually ready and eager to share, but sometimes they hit on something that even makes him blush. It’s rare, but it happens. And Jensen – well.

Jensen has secrets.

So he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t remind Jared that alcohol loosens tongues, too, sometimes to a dangerous degree. One particularly memorable night at Rosenbaum’s, a drinking game had produced an interesting discussion.

 _I never took it up the ass,_ Tommy had slurred over a shot of Jack, making sloppy gestures with his hands like a twice-trashed Vanna White.

Mike had arched an eyebrow at Jensen, who didn’t make a move to lift his shot glass. _Seriously, Jenny? Seriously?_

 _Seriously, you fucker,_ Jensen had muttered, crossing his eyes and sending Mike into a fit of drunken hilarity.

He was so busy messing around with Mike he’d almost missed seeing Jared close his lips around the rim of his glass, eyelashes lowered, cheeks flushed a soft coral pink.

“You think maybe it’s possible to know too much about somebody, Jen?”

Jensen nearly drops his spatula into the sink.

“What…what do you…”

“I mean, like, for example, did you know that when I was eighteen? I went to this party, right, some stupid-ass _Gilmore Girls_ thing, I don’t know. And I got real drunk – drunker than I’d ever been before, so drunk Alexis had to basically shove me into a cab to get me home. She was gonna come with me, but there was this guy, a PA… _fuck._ ”

Jared sounds pretty disoriented himself. Lost, like he’s feeling his way through a dark house with just his hands to guide him.

“I don’t remember his name, but he was…kinda flaming. I didn’t mind! I wasn’t used to it, but who cares, right?”

Jared laughs, but it sounds forced.

“I’m drunk as hell so I don’t object when he asks if he can share a cab with me. I think, ‘It’s cool, it’ll just be a few minutes and we don’t have to talk. It’s all right.’”

Jensen flicks off the burner on the stove and sits down at his kitchen table. He has a feeling this story is going someplace interesting, and he doesn’t want to incinerate his apartment trying to listen and cook at the same time. Jensen’s never been that good in the kitchen – if he’s going to try to be culinary, he needs to be focused.

“So we’re a few minutes into the ride and this guy, he leans a little closer to me and he asks, ‘Am I reading you right?’ I’m thinking, ‘What the hell?’ so I just say, ‘I’m drunk, I don’t know what you’re reading.’ And he says, ‘You aren’t as good of a boy as you pretend to be.’”

Jensen’s pulse quickens, body flushing with heat. The way Jared says it – caught somewhere between the memory of being nineteen and the reality of being twenty-four, coated in sex and mischief and slicked up with liquor – turns his crank so hard.

He lets his hand rest on his thigh, fingers tracing the seams of his jeans.

“One minute it seems like he’s joking around, and the next he’s leaning in and kissing me like it’s nothing, opening his mouth against mine and I’m just…I don’t know, going with it, what the hell else was I going to do? Drunk, horny, making out with some guy I don’t know for no good reason, and it…”

Jared stops; Jensen can hear his breath stutter as if the air got caught in his windpipe.

“It felt _good._ Really fucking good. He kissed me like nobody’d ever kissed me before, like he knew what he was doing, knew what he wanted and was just going to take it—”

Jensen swallows a moan, fingertips fluttering along his zipper. Just listening to Jared he’s hard as hell, his dick pressing against the tight fabric, the zipper teeth biting into his skin through the fly of his boxers.

It hurts, dammit. It _hurts_.

“And he’s got his hand up under my shirt, pinching my nipples,” Jared continues, voice slow and lazy. “His other hand touching me through my jeans, rubbing and stroking, and I swear to God, I was two seconds away from coming in that backseat when the cab stops and it’s his fucking house and he just…he pulls back and goes, ‘You want to come inside?’”

Jensen bites his lip until it splits under his teeth, hand cupping himself through his jeans, pressure light but there, definitely there, and oh it’s wrong but he wants Jared to go inside, go inside that PA’s house and fuck that boy against his cheap polyester sheets until he screams.

He whimpers, lifting his hand to muffle the sounds he’s making, but there’s a definite pause, like Jared’s straining to hear, and _shit. **Shit.**_

Then he continues: “It’s weird, but all of a sudden it’s like I’m sobering up – my brain actually kicks into gear and I go, ‘No, no, I can’t do that, thank you, I’m sorry.’”

Jared huffs out a breath.

“I’m thanking this guy who basically mauled my drunk ass in the back of a fucking cab for leaving me with blue balls because that’s what my momma taught me, right? Be polite even when the situation isn’t, but it’s bullshit because – because this is fucked up, and when the cab finally gets me home I stumble through my front door and jerk off in my living room, thinking about this twink tease and the way he fucked my mouth with his tongue, the things he could’ve done to my dick if I’d let him…”

Jensen’s panting now, can’t help it, breathing too fast and out of control, pressing the heel of his hand flat against his zipper and squeezing his eyes shut. He can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, cock throbbing and rigid in his pants, every muscle of his body so tight he thinks he’s going to snap, explode, make a mess of his kitchen.

“…and I know what you’re doing, Jensen.”

He stops breathing.

 _No. No, he can’t see me now, he’s in Texas, there are no cameras in here, he can’t be watching me, he can’t know…_

Jensen snaps his cell phone closed and flings it across the kitchen, metal skittering over linoleum, heartbeat jackhammering in his chest.

He ignores the vibrating clatter of the phone when Jared tries to call him back.

~*~

Jensen was nineteen and recently cast on _Days_ when he went to his first real Hollywood party. He was the New Kid on the Block – dressed up to look like one too, tight jeans and tight t-shirt and floppy-slick hair, working the James Dean angle even though he didn’t know it.

Jensen didn’t know much of anything, then – fresh out of Texas, pretty as sin and stupid, stupid, stupid.

The party was loud, smoky and sweaty, air filled with cheesy mid-90s techno-pop, the kind of shit you didn’t need to know the lyrics to. People were passing around glasses of champagne, shoving bizarre-looking cocktails into his open hands, and soon he was drunk and dizzy. He’d felt dangerous like that – wound up, fucked up, not quite such an angel anymore. Girls had fallen all over him, pressing warm breasts into his side, sliding sharp fingernails along the nape of his neck, tousling his hair.

 _He’s so cute, Christie!_ he remembers hearing one of his co-stars tell another. _Where did they find him?_

Like Jensen was some kind of lost kitten looking for a home.

But wasn’t he? What had Jensen expected to find in Hollywood, anyway? Open arms, open hearts?

Open arms he could find, and easily. And it was so strange – he can’t remember how he ended up with her, or even what her name had been but there he was, slurring drunk and pressed up against a wall with a tight female body writhing against him.

She’d been as drunk as he was, he’s pretty sure of that. Could hardly hold herself up, in fact. She’d been giggling and trying to tickle him and kissing his neck, right at that spot that always makes his breath catch. Then she’d leaned in, pressed a hand to his chest and brought her lips to his ear, whispering _You want to take this somewhere, stud?_

He doesn’t know why it had messed him up so bad to hear her put it like that, so raunchy and cheap, very _fuck me harder big boy yeah just like that._ And he knew it was wrong, not so wrong it’s right but just wrong, dumb and dirty, the kind of dirty that you need a shower after – and not because of bodily fluids.

 _I…no,_ he’d said. _No, I can’t do this. I’m sorry._

She’d looked up at him, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light.

 _Fine. Fine._

She’d disentangled herself and turned to walk away. He’d thought it was over, that he could go home and sleep it all off, that he’d wake up tomorrow feeling good about how mature he’d been about all this, but then she’d turned back and—

 _Fuck you, you faggot,_ she’d hissed.

He can’t remember her name, or exactly what she looked like, or how they hooked up in the first place; can’t remember if they ever saw each other again, if she was memorable at all.

But her words?

Oh yes.

He remembers those.

~*~

Jensen’s shaking, hands pressed against the smooth Formica of his kitchen table, spine straight, eyes flicking around the room like he’s cataloging it for his memory. The scent of garlic still permeates the air. He knows he was doing something before the phone rang, but he can’t remember what.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, how many minutes tick by on the huge clock hung above the sink. He thinks he might be hungry. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

When the doorbell rings he nearly jumps out of his skin. _The fuck?_ He knows he didn’t invite anyone over, and his friends in L.A. aren’t in the habit of dropping in unannounced. Nobody ever knows when he’s going to be there. He doesn’t think he invited anyone over, but who knows, sometimes he forgets these things—

He’s on automatic, unlocking the deadbolt, twisting the second lock open, hand on the doorknob, turning, turning, and then—

 _Oh God._

“Don’t…Jensen, please let me in.”

Jared’s eyes are wide and bloodshot. He’s bitten his lip blood red, cheeks flushed ruddy with effort. Probably took the stairs. But how the hell did he even…

“I was in L.A., man,” Jared says, answering the question in Jensen’s eyes. “I came home a few days ago. I wanted…I wanted to see you before…”

Jared’s crumbling, gone inarticulate and scared and God, he looks so _young_ , so innocent and open and it’s breaking Jensen like nothing’s ever broken him before.

“You,” Jensen breathes. “You can come inside.”

He doesn’t move out of the doorway, though, and they stand like that for a moment, Jared pleading with his eyes, Jensen trying desperately to get his limbs to move.

“I promise,” Jared says quietly, just a wisp of sound, “I won’t touch you, Jen. I won’t.”

 _Damn, Jared,_ Jensen thinks. _If only you knew._

But then he realizes that Jared does know. He knows something.

Jensen’s just not sure what.

He retreats inside, letting Jared through the door. His wide shoulders brush against the sides of the doorway. When he’s inside, Jared still looks huge, but he’s also smaller, somehow, dwarfed by his own trepidation.

The silence that follows is one of the most uncomfortable Jensen’s ever felt, and he and Jared don’t do those kinds of silences. They can sit for hours pressed shoulder to shoulder, playing PS2 or reading magazines or scripts or watching a movie and it’s totally fine, comfy. Easy.

But this – this is not that.

Jared breaks first, words spilling out in a torrent. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Jensen, I should have never…I shouldn’t have told you that story. I shouldn’t have…”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Jensen murmurs, but it’s habit, that quiet, polite, _don’t rock the boat_ mentality that Jensen’s had instilled in him since…since forever.

He does want Jared to apologize. He’s not sure for what.

“I crossed a line. I get it. I…I guess I misinterpreted…” Jared runs a hand through his hair, expelling a sigh. “I didn’t read the situation right, and I…I should’ve…I don’t know, asked you or something, not just assumed you…”

Jared’s nostrils flare, hand clenching into a fist at his side.

“I guess I was too pussy, and that’s not an excuse, but…it’s where I’m coming from. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Jensen’s eyes flick up, taking in Jared’s pained expression; Jared’s eyes are glinting with misery, lips dipping into a tense frown.

Jensen’s pretty sure he wrote the book on being _too pussy._

He thinks that needs to stop.

“Jared, when you say you were assuming – _what_ exactly were you assuming?”

Jared’s eyes catch Jensen’s; he looks surprised.

“I…I was thinking you…that maybe you…”

And the thing is, Jared doesn’t need to say it, because it’s all there, scrawled across his face in messy strokes. Jared’s terrible at hiding his emotions. He’s also a terrible liar, and a worse poker player, and Jensen loves him so much for it, it burns.

When he reaches out to touch Jared’s cheek it’s the most natural thing he’s done in years. It should be awkward and strange but it’s not; it’s _this_ and it’s _here_ and it’s _now_ and it’s _right._

He’ll remember that Jared kissed him first, because that’s how it goes, but he also knows they met somewhere in the middle, somewhere between _ohshitohfuck_ and _yes, yes, there, yes._

Jared tastes like Sour Patch Kids and cheap bourbon; he feels like a steamy shower after a long run. His lips move hot and hard against Jensen’s, hand resting on Jensen’s chest, pushing gently until he’s got him pressed up against the wall, no room to breathe.

That’s exactly the way Jensen likes it.

When Jared’s tongue brushes against Jensen’s he has to bite back the whimper that rises in his throat. Jared pulls away, staring down at him, pupils blown wide and as black as tar. His touch – thumb flicking over Jensen’s cheekbone and down along his jaw – is as light as a feather.

“That. That’s the sound you were…”

Jensen bites his lip, hands clenching at his sides. Jared slides his palm down Jensen’s chest – it’s only a light touch, barely felt through his t-shirt, but Jensen shivers and moans softly, a stifled, pained sound.

And then something registers in Jared’s dark eyes.

“You…you weren’t kidding, were you, Jen? You don’t…you don’t ever…”

Jensen’s cheeks redden. He can feel sweat collecting along the nape of his neck. He stares at Jared, not looking away, and when he exhales a shuddering sigh he knows Jared’s got his answer.

Jared’s breathing hard, lips parting around the words one at a time, stretching the syllables until they’re long and languid.

“How…how long? Jesus, since you were sixteen years old, Jensen? Really?”

He reaches for Jensen’s wrists, letting his hands encircle them, drawing the pad of his thumbs over the scars he can’t see in the dim light of Jensen’s living room. Maybe it’s delusional, but Jensen wants to believe Jared can feel them anyway, feel where the ropes bit in, where they itched and chafed and bruised.

“Fuck, I can’t even...” Jared trails off. His fingertips press into Jensen’s wrist bones urgently.

 _God, Jensen, God._

“It was your father, wasn’t it?” Jared cocks his head to one side. “The religious stuff? He made you ashamed? Told you it was a sin?”

Jensen wonders if he’s that transparent, if he’s been that transparent all along and Jared’s just been too nice of a guy to call him on it, but he can’t help asking: “How did you…”

“I may not be a Southern Baptist from Dallas, Jen,” Jared murmurs, “but I grew up in Texas too, you know. Your father’s not the only guy to ever use that kind of power to hurt rather than heal.”

 _Wrong, it’s wrong_

 _You’re wrong to want that, son_

 _Wrong to want…_

 _Fuck you, you faggot._

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he doesn’t want to breathe, he doesn’t know what he wants—

Jensen’s pretty sure the word “revelation” was invented for moments like this.

And then Jared’s mouth closes over his, Jared’s hands still clasping his wrists, Jared’s lips and fingers warm and reassuring, gentle and firm, _there._ It’s slow, syrupy kissing, melting pressure, light heat, nothing anywhere Jensen doesn’t want it. A little clumsy and experimental, maybe, but perfect, perfect in the only way something can be when it takes this many mistakes to get here.

When they separate Jensen is winded and dizzy, mind fogged over with want.

And yet the words that rise to his lips are automatic, almost instinctual.

 _“You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination,”_ Jensen whispers. _“Leviticus, 18:22.”_

The oft-quoted axiom hangs heavy in the air, potent and powerful, swelled with history both personal and ancient. Jared swallows, gaze flicking down to the floor, but when he looks up, his eyes are deep and dark, infused with promises. He reaches out, touching one finger to Jensen’s forehead as if he could smooth away the tightness there.

“You know what I remember from the Bible best?” Jared says softly, pressing a kiss to Jensen’s temple, a tickling fluttering of the lips.

Jensen can only stare up at him from under lowered lashes, lips slightly parted, trying to breathe.

Jared’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “You remember this, Jensen?”

Then he begins to quote, voice smooth and honey-sweet with just a touch of flint:

 _“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.”_

He tips Jensen’s head back with one hand, tongue dancing along his lower lip, tracing the curves, breathing warm against him, infusing him with heat.

 _“Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue…”_

Jared kisses Jensen’s neck, raking his teeth lightly over his pulse point, tongue flicking out to trace the throbbing vein, laving over stubble and sweat.

 _“The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman,”_ Jared murmurs, hand dropping to Jensen’s hip, one finger sliding under the waistband of his jeans, brushing over the indentation in question.

Jensen can’t hold back the whimper this time; it comes out choked and Jared smiles, a tiny, wicked smile but he does not stop:

 _“Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies...”_

Jensen shivers, hand clutching at Jared’s arm; he’s twitching, vibrating, and Jared can feel it, Jensen knows, feel it along every place they’re touching.

 _His left hand is under my head,_ Jensen thinks, _and his right hand doth embrace me._

Jared’s smile widens, slanted eyes sparking with a predatory gleam. He leans in, whispering against his cheek:

“But you know me, Jensen. I only ever remember the dirty parts.”

Jensen’s eyes flutter closed. It’s too much, too hot, too good. He slumps against the wall, head spinning, chest tight, breathing ragged, thoughts marching off in a thousand directions like naughty soldiers.

“Jen…talk to me, please,” Jared says. “I’ll kiss you forever, but I don’t want you to think I’m doing it to shut you up.”

He opens his eyes. Jared looks caught between mischief and fear.

“That’s…impressive,” Jensen says, voice thin and tight. He clears his throat.

“Your recall, I mean.”

“Well, fuck, if I couldn’t memorize things I’d be in a bit of situation in terms of my chosen profession, wouldn’t I?” Jared says.

He pauses, then encircles Jensen’s arm in a loose grip.

“Jen…I…I’m right, aren’t I? You’ve never done this.”

“Never…never kissed a guy? Yeah, I…um. No,” Jensen stutters. “I haven’t.”

“When I…when I was talking to you on the phone today I was thinking about you, y’know, and what you look like, what you would look like…” Jared bites his lip.

“I didn’t think you…I didn’t realize you didn’t…I could hear you breathing, the way you sounded like you were trying to hold it together and just couldn’t and it was so fucking sexy and I…I’ve wanted this for so long and…”

 _How could I not know?_ Jensen wonders. _How could I be so blind to…_

Jared’s hand tightens around Jensen’s arm and it comes to him, sudden, unexpected and unbidden.

 _Hand to God. This is what it means._

Jensen exhales.

Jared’s eyes flit back and forth across Jensen’s face. “You are so fucking beautiful. Goddamn, Jensen.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Never? Thirteen years and you’ve never…?”

Jensen shakes his head.

“Now that?” Jared murmurs. “That is so wrong. To tie yourself up like that? How could it possibly benefit God to deny yourself that kind of pleasure?”

It’s a question Jensen’s asked himself many times over many years, more and more since he met Jared, more and more as the dreams became more vivid, as the feelings burned him deeper, hurt and stung and swelled inside of him.

“I…I don’t know,” Jensen says.

Jared presses one hot palm against Jensen’s stomach, sliding up the fabric and slipping along bare skin. Jensen inhales sharply.

 _Self-worship. Idolatry. That’s what that is, son. There’s nothing clean or holy about it. It’s just wrong._

 _Fuck you,_ Jensen thinks for the first time, feeling electric fury sizzle up his spine. _Fuck you, Dad._

“I want you to do it, Jensen,” Jared whispers, voice low, hot. “Right now. Touch yourself.”

Jensen feels like the floor has dropped out from under him. The room’s spinning, but he can’t feel it – he’s mesmerized by the silver-green of Jared’s eyes and the rough burr in his voice.

“I’ll help you,” Jared says. “If you want me to, I’ll help you.”

Jensen takes in a shaky breath. “Just…can you…talk to me? Please?”

Jared’s mouth twists up at one corner.

“Talking I can do, Jen. Always.”

Jensen lets his eyes fall shut again, leaning back against the wall, feeling it support his weight. He can sense Jared’s heat, close but not smothering, steamy but not suffocating. He breathes him in, smelling a touch of stale liquor, traces of cologne and sweat.

Jared’s still got his hand pressed against Jensen’s stomach; it doesn’t take much for him to move it to the button of his jeans, flicking it open and stripping down the zipper. It’s so quiet Jensen can hear the crackle of the metal teeth being pulled apart. He shudders.

“Jared. Talk, please?”

He feels Jared’s hands at his waist, pushing his jeans down over his hips, fingers trailing along his sides.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Jensen. You don’t even know. I’d watch you sometimes, watch you move and talk and smile and all I could think about was the way you’d look…like this. Strung out and melting, breathing hard and so hot under my hands…”

Jared’s got one hand pressed over the fly of Jensen’s boxers now, touch light and teasing, and Jensen suddenly realizes how hard he is, how much he wants to push up against Jared’s palm, let him stroke him until his world ignites.

But then Jared catches Jensen’s wrist in his hand and guides him down, lacing his fingers through Jensen’s.

“You can do this, Jensen,” Jared whispers.

Jensen feels Jared slide his hand up and down, applying gentle pressure. The cold metal of his own ring grazes the skin of his cock through his fly, and he gasps.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” Jared murmurs. His voice is raspy, vowels long and slurred.

“It’s okay, it’s okay…”

And then Jensen’s slipping his own hand inside his fly and closing it around his dick, feeling his calluses rub against the sensitive skin. The groan that tears from his throat sounds so loud to his ears he flushes instantly, trembling, but Jared is there, saying, “It’s _okay_ , Jensen, here, let me…”

Jensen feels him lift his hand up, up, and then there’s the wet flick of Jared’s tongue across his palm, over his fingers, coating his hand with spit and heat. Jared closes his lips around Jensen’s pointer finger, swallowing up to the second knuckle and letting his tongue flutter up and down until Jensen’s shaking and crying out, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.

“Good, so good,” Jared says. “M’gonna make sure you feel as good as you look, Jensen. I can guarantee…”

Jensen’s hand curls around his dick again, Jared’s fingers tracing along the back of his hand. Jensen strokes up, once, _God_ , and the friction is incredible; twice and he’s already shuddering; three times and he’s moaning, hitching in barely-breaths, whole body crackling like live wire.

Jared curses softly. “You are so hot right now, Jensen, I just want to—”

Then they’re kissing, Jared eating hungrily at Jensen’s mouth, tongue flicking over his teeth, swallowing his moans. Jared lets his hand cover Jensen’s, moving with him, moving with him as Jensen thrusts up, thrusts against his smooth stomach and the groove of his hip as Jared’s baggy jeans slip further down. Jared’s making these breathy sounds that render Jensen feverish and dizzy and incoherent. Jared arches his back and moves his hips and then Jensen can feel him too, hard and aching against his thigh through the fabric of his jeans.

It may be only minutes, but it feels like hours – and when Jensen bucks up into his fist for the last time and spills over their joined hands, it’s so powerful Jared has to literally hold him up to keep him from falling.

Jared groans, whispering, “Sh-shit, Jen, God, God…” and Jensen’s eyes fly open just in time to see Jared close his, a look of serenity falling across his features as his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks.

They breathe together for a full minute, deep, almost-gasping breaths.

When Jared opens his eyes his lips form a slow, sleepy grin.

“Jared, I…” Jensen starts, but then realizes he has no idea what he wants to say.

Jared brings his free hand to Jensen’s face, cupping his chin, pulling him forward to share another slick, sweet-tasting kiss. When they separate Jared whispers, “That feel good?”

Jensen laughs. “Good? Oh, no. That was _amazing_ , is what it was.”

Jared’s smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Good. Excellent. _Amazing_ , even.”

Jensen’s forehead crinkles in worry. “But you…you didn’t…”

It’s Jared’s turn to laugh this time.

“Oh, but I did,” he says. “I did, Jensen, and I’ll have you know I haven’t come in my pants since I was sixteen, so tonight? Was apparently about making up for lost time for the both of us.”

“You memorized that Bible stuff to get in some poor little church girl’s pants, didn’t you?” Jensen volleys back, falling into a comfortable, familiar rhythm. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Jared’s cheeks flush lightly. He widens his eyes and pushes out his lower lip, attempting innocence. He fails miserably.

This strikes Jensen as funnier than it probably is, and for several blessed moments they laugh together, easy as it’s always been.

When the laughter subsides, it’s Jared, of course, who speaks first.

He draws one finger through the wetness that marks Jensen’s cheeks, memories of tears. He keeps his eyes focused on Jensen’s, gaze intense and magnetic.

“I may not always agree with what the Bible has to say on everything,” Jared whispers, “but they did get some things right.”

He finger slides down to press against Jensen’s kiss-swollen lips. Jensen lets his tongue flick out to taste him – salt, sugar – and Jared hitches in a breath.

Then he quotes, one last time:

 _“His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend.”_


End file.
